Dark Blood. Stuart MacBride

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      ‘Come on, you don’t think it’s a wee bit odd: some tadger comes in here with over four thousand pounds in crisp new twenties wanting to buy one of your manky motors?’

      ‘A lot of people doing business in readies now. No bugger trusts them thieving dicks in the banks any more. Safer keeping it under the mattress.’

      ‘And if it’s cash, you can accidentally forget to mention it to the tax man, right?’

      Middleton’s face darkened. ‘I’m the victim here, OK? Four and a half grand I’m down! Not to mention one Honda Civic.’

      Logan took a sip of instant coffee: bitter, burnt tasting, little beads of fat glimmering on the surface. ‘If you sold the car, you’ve got the buyer’s details, yes? On the registration documents?’

      Middleton coughed, swivelled back and forth in his chair, stared at a parts catalogue. ‘Look, maybe this is all going a bit too far. I mean the bloke probably didn’t know the cash was—’

      Steel cut him off. ‘Don’t talk shite. Give us the guy’s details, or I’m dragging you down the station and doing you for passing counterfeit money and trying to poison a police officer with crap cheapo coffee.’

      Middleton glowered in silence for a bit, then stood and muttered his way to a beige filing cabinet in the corner of the office. He went rummaging through one of the drawers, and came out with a registration document. He held it out and Steel snatched it off him, gave it a cursory glance, then chucked it to Logan. ‘Read.’

      Logan opened it up and scanned the new keeper section, carefully printed in blue biro. ‘You know you’re meant to send this off to the DVLA, right?’

      ‘How come you bastards aren’t out there arresting paedophiles and bloody muggers, eh?’

      ‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Steel took another sip and grimaced. ‘We got an address?’

      ‘Car’s registered to a Douglas Walker in Peterculter.’

      ‘There you go, wasn’t so difficult now, was it?’ Steel clunked her mug down on the desk and stood, rubbing the seat of her trousers. ‘Come on Sergeant, let’s get out of here before Mr Middleton threatens to make more coffee.’

      Logan followed her out onto the forecourt, buttoning up his jacket against the cold. Brambles scratched along the drystane dyke that bordered the lot, their dark-brown skeletons speckled with frost where the weak sun hadn’t managed to reach yet. He dug his hands deep into his pockets, then froze, staring at one of the vehicles: a red Honda Civic.

      He checked the registration documents again. ‘Inspector?’

      Steel kept on walking, pulling out her phone.

      Behind him, Logan could hear Kevin Middleton locking the garage up. Then the man was hurrying past, weaving his way between the used cars towards a Range Rover parked at the kerb.

      Logan shouted across to him. ‘Where, exactly, do you think you’re going?’

      ‘Erm, dentist appointment?’

      Steel leant back against the CID pool car, poking away at her phone’s keypad. ‘Hurry up; sodding perishing out here. My nipples get any pointier they’ll put someone’s eye out.’

      Logan nodded towards the Honda. ‘This is the car he says he sold for four and a half grand.’

      ‘Er … no it isn’t. Just cos it’s the same make—’

      ‘And the same colour, and the same number plate.’ Logan held up the registration documents. ‘Want to explain that?’

      ‘It… Er…’ Middleton sagged back against a Ford Fiesta, staring up at the low grey sky, breath steaming out as he swore. ‘I got it back. OK?’

      ‘Oh yeah?’

      ‘Come on, it was four and a half grand!’

      ‘Which you’re no doubt claiming back on your insurance.’ Logan ran his eyes over the collection of cars on the forecourt. ‘Have you had a visit from Trading Standards recently, Mr Middleton? Checking the odometers aren’t clocked? All the vehicles are roadworthy? No cut-and-shut jobs?’

      ‘What was I supposed to do? I’m a small businessman, I can’t afford to have people ripping me off! You know how it—’

      ‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Steel stomped her feet. ‘Shut up the pair of you. I’m cold and I’m bored and if it’s all the same to you, I’d kinda like to get home before the next sodding ice age sets in.’ She turned her back on them. ‘Logan, get your arse in gear. We’re leaving.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘Now.’ She clambered into the passenger seat and slammed the car door.

      Brilliant. Nothing like being supported by your senior officer. Logan pointed a finger at Middleton. ‘This isn’t over.’

      ‘Thanks a lot.’ Logan changed gear and put his foot down, overtaking a minibus on the dual carriageway. ‘That was really nice. Empowering.’ The traffic was getting heavier the closer they got to the Kingswells roundabout. Rush-hour congealing the arteries leading in and out of Aberdeen like a deep-fried Mars Bar.

      Steel cracked open the pool car window and blew a stream of smoke out into the cold afternoon, mobile phone clamped to her ear. ‘What did you want to do? Arrest him? Impound all his stock? Spend the rest of the night filling in sodding paperwork?’

      ‘He’s dodgy.’

      ‘Shock horror, a dodgy second-hand car dealer. Who would’ve thunk it? That has to be a first.’

      ‘He’s—’

      ‘Come on Steve, pick up the bloody phone!’ She squinted her face up, cigarette gripped between her front teeth. ‘Finnie’s getting a DI down from Fraserburgh to cover my cases while I’m away. Try and no’ whinge too much when you’re working for him, eh? Make it look like I run a tight ship.’

      ‘Brilliant. Bring someone else in.’ Logan gripped the steering wheel tighter.

      ‘Steve, it’s your mum. Where the hell are you? Call me back.’ She snapped her phone shut. ‘Voicemail.’

      ‘I could’ve run the caseload. I know it all inside out. I’m already doing all the bloody work. Instead of which I’m going to have to hold some Teuchter numpty’s—’

      ‘Wah, wah, wah. You’re such a bloody moan. Just be thankful I didn’t let them hand everything over to Beattie.’

      Small mercies.

      Steel stuck the phone back in her jacket. ‘Can’t decide if I’m more pissed off or worried about Steve.’

      ‘Steve who?’

      ‘Polmont, my chiz.’

      Which explained the, ‘it’s your mum’ bit – keeping СКАЧАТЬ